Demon Axe, Chapter 9

“Daniel! March your butt right back here! Now! Open your goddamn ears for the first time in your life! Get back here, you big baby! Come on! Move it!” None of these energetic threats from Raven could slow down the clomping thuds of Daniel Mercer’s boots. Determined that his newfound “weapon” was still just at toy, the rock god marched back to the portal to the “real world”.

“You can run away all you want to, but Roger is eventually going to hunt your ass down!” shouted Raven, who was floating through the portal space with him. “And then what will you do? Are you just going to give up? Are you going to kneel before the same son of a bitch who murdered your friends in cold blood?!”

Daniel was more distracted by his own angry thoughts than he was by the colors and wavelengths of the portal world. Raven’s words snapped him out of it and earned her a vicious glare from a stone face. “Be angry all you want!” she said. “But if you don’t channel that anger towards bringing justice to your friends and your audience, then you’re just a heavy metal hypocrite.”

“You want to know what a real hypocrite is, Raven?!” roared Daniel. “A hypocrite is someone who has an entire army of soldiers to hunt down one guy, yet still claims to be powerless to do anything about it! Your father is a typical politician: full of empty promises and full of bullshit! Who the hell voted for him to be king?! Seriously, what is he doing with all of those soldiers?! Are they just a bunch of paper-pushers with medieval weapons?!”

The allies were so busy bickering that they failed to realize that they had been shot out of the portal and onto the grassy field of the outdoor arena a.k.a. “the real world”. They stood back up (without each other to lean on) and dusted the grass blades and dirt off of their clothes.

Raven shoved her finger in Daniel’s face and said, “Listen to me, you fucking jerk! I don’t ever want to hear you talk about my father like that again! Some things are out of his control, but he knows exactly what he’s doing by sending you out to fight Roger Zee. Whether you like it or not, you represent this human world. You have its entire weight on your shoulders. If you humans don’t learn to help yourselves, then nobody else can help you either. This is my father’s way of teaching you pathetic humans self-reliance! If you can update your fucking Twitter page, you can goddamn jolly-well learn to catch a terrorist!”

Daniel leaned closer to Raven so that they were face-to-face and said in a hushed, yet angry tone, “There’s a huge difference between self-reliance and complete abandonment. Not only is Roger Zee a product of YOUR society, but the only thing I have to fight him with is…” He swung his “magical” axe microphone in the air and sprinkled more gold dust around. “Tell me how any of this is supposed to make sense!”

“When was the last time any tragedy in this world made sense?” asked Raven rhetorically. “When was the last time that a zealot thought rationally about what he or she was doing? Sometimes things don’t make sense at first, Daniel. Sometimes the best answer to all of this is there are just too many assholes out there. But you…you make more sense than a lot of people from your culture, and that’s saying a lot given your affinity for drugs and alcohol.”

“Then riddle me this, Batman,” said Daniel. “How exactly is a stage prop supposed to slash the head off of someone who can do the same thing to me with just a flick of his fucking wrist?”

“That’s the million dollar question, Mr. Lord of the Pit!” said a gravelly, demonic voice only a few feet away from the conversers. Daniel and Raven looked at each other fearfully and gulped saliva before slowly turning their necks to see that the voice belonged to an enslaved Johnny Vega, his partner Sonia Marquez flanking him. They stood there with arms folded, muscles thumping, veins protruding, eyes glowing, and teeth bared.

Raven took notice of the crowns of thorns on the assailants’ heads. “These wrestlers don’t know what they’re doing. The Order of the Spider once used those crowns to glean information from prisoners. Roger has found a way to use them for complete mind control.”

Daniel patted Raven on the back and said, “Well, Mrs. Warrior Princess, this is your cue then. You’re the only one between the two of us with an actual weapon, so why don’t you just…”

Raven was knocked backwards so far that she rolled across the grass field, all because of a flying martial arts kick from Sonia Marquez, who proceeded to crack her knuckles after such an accomplishment. Daniel trembled as he watched his ally holding her stomach and gasping desperately for air. Sonia mockingly patted him on the shoulder and said in a succubus-like voice, “Well, what are you waiting for, honey-bunny? Why don’t you try that new weapon of yours on me? I promise I won’t bite…hard!”

Daniel looked down at his “toy” and gripped the handle with a warrior’s resolve. His trembling of fear turned to trembling of anger. He glared with deadliness into Sonia’s demonic eyes and said, “Die, you motherfucker, die!” With reckless abandon, he hacked and slashed with his magical axe like a battle-hungry berserker. He slashed at her neck, arms, ribs, and legs while screaming every swear word imaginable until his veins burst like dynamite sticks. By the time his vicious attack was over, he doubled over in exhaustion and wheezed hard while spitting acidic bile onto the grass.

“Didn’t your mother ever teach you to be nice to your toys?” said Sonia, who didn’t have a single scratch on her, not even a small bruise of sorts. She stood with her arms folded and her smile arrogant. Daniel on the other hand whimpered so gently that Johnny Vega couldn’t help but give him a “comforting” shoulder squeeze.

“It’s alright, you big baby girl,” said Johnny in a mocking bass voice. “It’s not your fault that you hit like a two-year-old…or cry like one. You probably should have brought a gun with you of some kind. But then again, those are big boy toys and you’re just a little bitty baby. Maybe you should have one of those rifles with a wooden cork at the end of it.”

Sonia and Johnny were laughing it up in their monstrous voices while Raven was squirming on the ground like a snail, trying to get back into this battle, but hurting badly. She was the only one who had true fighting experience and she was easily vanquished. Daniel didn’t think he had a chance in the world. To him, this was truly a shitty way to die. He didn’t know what the minions were going to do to him, but it probably would have involved a shattered skull or a snapped spinal cord. Hearing them laugh about it brought angry tears to Daniel’s eyes.

The Lord of the Pit grit his teeth hard as he thought about Roger secretly laughing about slaughtering his band mates. The trauma of their severed heads came rushing back to him, the voices blaming him for being a failure and running away in cowardice. His adrenaline was heating up like molten steel. His muscles twitched and ached. His heart felt like a bomb vest ready to explode. With one final outburst, Daniel yelled, “Shut the fuck up!” into the microphone like the true heavy metal god he was.

The sound waves of the throaty growl knocked Sonia and Johnny back like human cannonballs. Their crowns of thorns showed small cracks in them as well. Everybody on that battlefield good or evil showed shock on their faces with wide eyes and deep breaths. “Holy shit,” said Daniel softly.

The initial shock wore off and was replaced with vitriolic, passionate fire from the Lord of the Pit. Instead of imagining his band mates as floating heads, he imagined them as full bodies, in their costumes and masks, playing behind him like they were at a concert. Vulture Man strummed his guitar like a wild motherfucker. Pig Man slapped his bass guitar like a pimp who was owed money. G-Pac bashed the drums and symbols with enough anger to put dents into them.

“Alright, motherfuckers!” the Lord of the Pit shouted into the microphone yet again. “You want a battle? Here’s a war!” That last word was prolonged with a raspy roar as he imagined the grinding music in the background. The louder Daniel yelled, the tighter everybody around him gripped their ears in pain. He wasn’t even singing a real song; it was just a firestorm of hateful, disgusting swear words from “cocksucker” to “motherfucker” to “prison bitch” to “Jesus Christ”.

The sound waves from the microphone blew past everyone like a hurricane and smashed their eardrums like G-Pac on his kit. The crowns of thorns formed more cracks. And more. And more. Then the artifacts of control shattered like glass and blew away in the heavy metal tornado. Johnny and Sonia’s heads were bleeding, but not profusely and they were still awake. Raven was shaking her ears with her fingers, trying to get the buzzing out. The Lord of the Pit looked around at what he had done and dropped his microphone in disbelief. “Jesus fucking Christ,” he said.

Demon Axe, Chapter 7

Despite the pounding that the Demon Axe tour van took, it did an adequate job of getting Daniel and Raven from point A to point B. The breeze blowing through the shattered windows felt good against their wrapped up wounds. The feeling of having their hair blown backwards was relaxing to where Daniel almost fell asleep at the wheel.

He couldn’t complete drift into dreamland just yet because he knew where his ultimate destination was. The thought of returning to that outdoor arena formed a knot in his stomach the size of a medicine ball. His blood ran cold like a frigid river of anxiety and depression. His skin tingled like a thousand needles impaling him. He tried the old trick of breathing deeply, but not even a hurricane force breath was enough to calm his frosty nerves.

Raven could see the terror on Daniel’s face and ruffled his hair in a small attempt to bring him back down to earth. The affectionate gesture soothed him, but only minimally as the van was getting closer and closer to the outdoor arena. When a highway sign said that it was at the next exit, that was when Daniel slammed on the brakes and pulled over on the side of the road, his breathing intensified once more.

“I can’t do this. I can’t go back there, Raven. I’ll go fucking crazy,” said Daniel through a shaky voice.

“I know this is hard for you, but you need to trust me on this one. Within the holy grounds is a portal to the elven world. You’re going to see some things that you hoped you’d never see again, but I’m here for you. I wouldn’t bring you back here if I didn’t think it was important for you to see my king. He can help you. And you can help him. Whether you know it or not, the world needs your help, Daniel,” said Raven with a soothing tone.

Daniel shrugged his shoulders, shook his head, and said, “What the fuck do I have to offer to the world? I can’t just sing my way through all of this. Music can only do so much. It was never meant to do much against a blade-swinging maniac!”

Raven placed her tender arm around Daniel’s shoulders and said, “You can do this. It’s either this or a lifetime full of pain and misery. I like your chances better when you actually put forth the effort to healing yourself. Or you can sit around in your home while bills pill up, debt collectors scream at you, and your house eventually gets taken away. You can either be traumatized at the arena, or you can be traumatized on the streets. I hate being this rough with you, but that’s the reality of it.”

After Raven removed her arm, Daniel stared out the shattered windshield with his eyes half closed and his mind numbed out. It would be another half minute before he started the van again and bolted down the highway towards the exit ramp. He felt like a human popsicle with the chilled feeling in his blood intensifying. But when he finally pulled into the parking lot, his facial expression changed from a vegetative zombie to a warrior ready to march into battle. He turned to Raven and sternly warned her, “You’d better be right about this portal. I’m not fucking around with you.”

Both passengers got out of the van and began walking around the arena with the chilly morning air blowing gently against them. All of this walking was the first real form of exercise that Daniel got ever since the incident took place. Being mobile and active actually felt good on his Novocain mind. It was common knowledge that exercise was essential to a healthy life, but feeling this sudden burst of endorphins relaxed Daniel a little bit. It also helped that Raven held his hand the entire time. They had just met and would probably never be a romantic couple in a million years, but this was a stark contrast to the “coward” labeling from back at the house.

Daniel and Raven were so busy getting their exercise in that the former failed to notice a small stump that tripped him without knocking him over. “Sorry, Vulture Man, didn’t see you there.” The Lord of the Pit realized the gravity of what he absentmindedly said. His eyes widened, his lips quivered, his body trembled, and his intestines felt like he got hit in the stomach with a baseball bat. He didn’t want to turn his head, but when he slowly did so, that was when the realization hit him like a thunderous right hand. The bureaucratic geniuses who scoped this place forgot one measly little detail: the heads and spinal columns of Daniel’s former band mates, which were covered in grass, though still visible to the naked eye.

“Daniel, please don’t cry. Please hold it together. It’ll be okay,” begged Raven with her hands together prayer-style.

After a few tears trickled down the Lord of the Pit’s shaking face, he let out a blood-curdling scream like he had just walked into a horror movie. The pathetic nature of his screaming fit caused Raven to slowly back away from him while holding her hands in a defensive, pseudo-calming gesture.

The traumatic rage sent Daniel running like a wild man into the woods where he began scraping at a nearby tree with his fingernails. He climbed up the sturdy oak like a wild animal, slipping and sliding a few times, but ultimately achieving his destination at the highest branch. He curled into a ball and rocked back and forth while muttering nonsense to himself and shedding an avalanche of tears. His head felt like he just got kicked by an angry horse with steel shoes. If he could, he would stay up in this safe place for the rest of his life. What good was he as a hero if he was constantly fleeing like this?

With more grace and athleticism than her male counterpart, Raven scaled the tree and took a seat next to Daniel while wrapping her arm around him and fluffing his hair yet again. “It’s okay, Daniel. It’s okay. You’re going to be just fine. I need you to trust me. I know of something that will help you put your mind at ease. I should have done this earlier, but I see that you need it now more than ever. You can even do this yourself if you’re ever feeling helpless.”

“Get lost, you crazy bitch! What can you possibly do to help me now?! Look at me, I’m a train wreck!” shouted Daniel. Raven placed one hand on each of his shoulders and tapped them rhythmically one at a time. “Wait a minute, what are you doing?” Daniel asked. The elf warrior continued this strange form of therapy while the Lord of the Pit’s tears started to dry up and his sitting position became more relaxed. He had no idea what his new friend was doing or why it was working, but as long as he found his temporary peace, he wouldn’t complain.

“Deep breath in…and out,” said Raven, to which Daniel complied. “If you had agreed to go to a trauma therapist, he would do this exact same thing for you, but with an electrical device or a light board. It’s called EMDR, or Eye Movement Distortion Reprocessing. I know this because I had to start doing it for my people when they experienced the trauma of having their homes invaded. While you don’t necessarily have to use your eyes to do it, it’s supposed to use both halves of your brain to deal with a traumatic memory, hence the patting of both sides of your shoulders. Psychologists swear by this treatment. And I can see it’s beginning to work for you.”

Raven continued to apply this therapeutic technique and Daniel’s breathing became deeper and more stable. She added positive messages to this unique treatment when she said, “The deaths of your band mates and the audience members are not your fault, Daniel. You didn’t swing the blade. You didn’t hold hateful beliefs in your heart. You didn’t spread terrorism of any kind. You were there to play music. The dark fantasy tropes of Demon Axe are more than just a gimmick. They’re a creative force that is just as important as the heavy metal music itself. Creativity is what will set you free in the end, not mindless conformity. You knew that when you formed Demon Axe and it’s still true to this day.”

The therapy had ended, but the recovery was just beginning for Daniel Mercer. As he looked down at his lap, he contemplated having to use this same technique in the future for the journey that lied ahead. Everything that Raven told him just then was true. Creativity killed conformity. Dark magic is not sinful. And goddamn it, the Lord of the Pit was far from finished.

He looked at Raven with dewy eyes and a renewed sense of purpose. “I’m ready. Let’s go,” he said. The two of them slowly descended the treetops and continued their walking exercise for the day. Daniel walked by the severed heads and spinal columns of his former friends and merely waved at them before saying, “I’m doing this for you guys. Your deaths will not be in vain.”

Raven patted her friend on the back and squeezed his shoulders as they trekked along the blood-bathed arena. She along with Daniel held the lives of everybody who came to the concert in their hands. They were determined to bring peace to this world and to the fallen ones if it meant using every last breath of fresh air and every last shred of strength to do it. And right at that moment, Daniel felt stronger than Greek titan.

Demon Axe, Chapter 3

The audience at the Black River Arena mumbled somberly to each other while the wrestling ring in the center was dimly lit. They held up signs for their favorite wrestlers, but with weak arms. They “wooed” and cheered, but few did it with them. Some stood up, but the rest of them stayed seated. This audience was more like a graveyard than an arena full of wrestling fans. The sadness in their eyes was obvious as some of them were shedding tears.

And then the grinding sound of Demon Axe’s number one hit “Zombie-Ogre” boomed from the speakers like a cannonball. Any sadness or zombie-like behavior transformed instantly into raucous rage as the audience shot up from their seats and cheered like wild motherfuckers. The throaty chants of, “Vega! Vega! Vega!” echoed off the walls and created a symphony of adrenaline for the seven-foot tall world champion wrestler, Johnny Vega.

With his blood red hair in a ponytail, his beard scraggly, his green overalls fitting snuggly around his muscles, and the golden world title strapped around his waist, Johnny Vega looked out into the crowd and nodded at the love he was getting. He enjoyed the adulation so much that he clapped and cheered along with them as he strutted down to the ring. Once he climbed up on the apron, stepped over the top rope with his gigantic legs, and held his world title in the air, the crowd’s verbal assault hit its crescendo with fire and spunk, highly unlike what they were feeling before.

The minute Johnny Vega grabbed a microphone from the ringside attendant, the chants of his last name continued to put a huge grin on the champion’s face. But even a tough guy giant like him wasn’t immune to the tears in his own eyes. He wiped them away with his thumb and inhaled snot back in his nose much to the clapping approval of the crowd who came to see him.

“Thank you, guys. Thank you so much, you have no idea how much that means to me,” said Johnny into the microphone. “But as much as I love hearing that kind of energy from you guys, tonight is not about me. I know why you guys were in such a sour mood before I came out here. I feel it too. It’s about what happened to my favorite metal band Demon Axe a few days ago.”

The audience booed at Demon Axe’s fate while some of the members reverted back to tears. Johnny said, “I know, it pisses me off too. What in the hell would motivate some asshole to kill off so many people like that? What kind of message is that supposed to send? What are we supposed to learn from all of this?”

He teared up a little bit at that last sentence and then toughened up yet again. “I’ll tell you what we’re supposed to learn! We don’t back down from shit-heads like that! I don’t care how many people this moron kills, because we’re here to put on a fucking show and there’s not a goddamn thing he can do about it!” He received a sonic boom of cheers and raised fists once more. “This is America, baby! America doesn’t negotiate with terrorists! America doesn’t back down every time a tragedy happens! America gets back on their feet, dusts themselves off, and keeps on going until they can’t go anymore!”

Just when the audience was ready to explode with excitement, the sounds of sarcastic clapping into a microphone filled the arena and the boos were as brutal as ever. A man dressed in a purple robe with a hood over his head and a vulture mask over his face entered the arena and put a confused slash angry expression on Johnny Vega’s face. The wrestler said, “You’re not Vulture Man. You’re not G-Pac. You’re not Pig Man, though you are a pig for coming out here and interrupting me. Who the hell do you think you are, little man?!”

The robed figure said with a chorus of boos in the background, “Relax! I’m not here to spoil your fun. I’m just another guy who wants a crack at that championship you’ve got there. Because there’s nothing more manly and gutsy than two muscle-bound men fighting over a belt.”

“Don’t be a smart-ass, pretty boy! And take off that mask, you don’t deserve to wear it! That mask belonged to one of the greatest heavy metal guitarists of all time and you’re running around like you’re God’s greatest gift to professional wrestling! You ain’t shit, motherfucker! I take dumps bigger than you! You want to come out here to run your big mouth and wear that fucking mask like you actually own it, then get your ass in this ring so I can snap your goddamn spine!” shouted Johnny, much to the roaring delight of the fans, who chanted his last name once again.

The hooded figure drew more boos as he cackled into the microphone. “You misunderstand me. This isn’t about a mask or a belt or any other piece of god-awful attire. This is about my mission. This is about my people. This is about the wonderful friends you call Demon Axe parading their disgusting music all over holy ground. That ‘arena’ they played at wasn’t just for show. Whoever built that abortion of a structure was trampling all over my race’s sacred pastures. Yes, the building has been around for years, but I was the only one with the guts to do anything about it. And now here you are disgracing my people once again by speaking highly of these Demon Axe infidels!”

Johnny formed a wicked smile on his face and shook his head before saying, “So you’re the lunatic who carved up all those people at the Demon Axe concert.” The boos grew heavier and heavier, but Johnny held up his hands and said, “Nah, nah, cool it, guys. It’s actually a good thing that this dumb-ass came here in the middle of a wrestling show. Because now, I have a reason to kick his ass!”

The champion wrestler threw down his microphone and belt before jumping over the top rope and bull rushing his way toward the robed figure. Johnny cocked back his sledgehammer-like fist and took a wild, brutal, head-crunching swing. The minute his fist made contact with Vulture Man’s mask, the entire robe collapsed into purple smoke, leaving the audience and Johnny shrugging their shoulders and looking around aimlessly for answers.

The lights in the arena blew out and left everybody in mysterious darkness. The grating sounds of the terrorist laughing drew the loudest boos of the night. Red smoke appeared in the ring and revealed the figures of the machete-wielding elf warrior and a fellow wrestler on her knees with a crown of thorns on her head and a neon red glow in her eyes. The lights came back on and revealed a wide-eyed, shocked expression on Johnny Vega’s face. He shouted, “What the hell did you do to Sonia?!”

The woman everybody knew as Sonia Marquez donned gray MMA shorts, a black sports bra, and a black ponytail behind her head. Her muscular frame, sinister gimmick, and vicious martial arts skills made her a perfect slave for someone like the mysterious elf terrorist. Despite how real and genuine Sonia’s brainwashing looked, everybody in the audience assumed this was part of the show and booed accordingly rather than rushing the ring.

Johnny Vega rushed back up to the ring, leaped over the top rope, and reached his hands out in an attempt to strangle the elf terrorist until his head burst like a pustule. Mr. Vega was met with a kick to the liver by Sonia after she jumped up from her kneeling position. Johnny held his ribs tightly and dropped to his own knees before coughing up a liberal amount of blood.

“Don’t be too hard on him, Sonia,” ordered the elf. “We need him to cleanse this earth of anybody who would dare disrespect my people’s heritage. He’s big, strong, and wouldn’t dare resist the power of one of these.” The elf presented a magical crown of thorns to Sonia, who gladly accepted it with a wicked grin on her face. The elf jerked Johnny’s head up by his ponytail while Sonia slipped the brainwashing device over his head. Johnny protested with yells and “No’s”, but it was too late. The crown was already hardwiring his brain by stabbing its prickly thorns into his skull. A few more exhausted breaths later and Johnny slowly stood back up with the same red neon in his eyes as his female counterpart.

Once again, the fans didn’t know if this was part of the show or if this was really happening before their eyes. The elf could have been some asshole in makeup. The neon eyes could have been electrified contact lenses. The crowns of thorns could have been props for a hardcore match. One zealous fan in a Johnny Vega T-shirt and blue jeans jumped over the barricade and rushed the ring with a steel chair in hands. He immediately had his head chopped off by the elf’s machete.

The audience screamed like horrified babies while shooting up from their seats and bolting out of the nearest exits with their arms flailing. The black shirted, big bellied security detail stormed the ring only to be met with slashes from the elf’s machete, big boots and clotheslines from Johnny Vega, and elbow smashes and knee strikes from the MMA enthusiast Sonia Marquez. This didn’t look like “fake shit” anymore. Every slash unleashed a tidal wave of blood from the security detail’s guts and throats. Every clothesline knocked heads off of shoulders and snapped spines like toothpicks. Every MMA strike broke bones so badly that they jutted into vital organs. So many security guards’ corpses filled the ring and left behind a sea of blood and disgust in their wake. The Black River Arena made battlefields and car crashes look mundane.

The elf warrior raised his machete to the sky and yelled, “Nobody disrespects my heritage! Nobody disrespects my nation! Remember the name of Roger Zee! Feel the trauma every time that name is blown up on your TV screens! Know that your heroes and your military are powerless against me! The world will respect my race if I have to chop the heads off of every man, woman, and child on this sick fucking planet!”

Demon Axe, Chapter 2

The Lord of the Pit bathed in darkness once again, though he was all alone and everything looked hazy to him. In this state of mind, he could finally relax and pull the plug on his emotions even if only for a little while. All he did was float in space with a numb body, a numb mind, and a dead soul. But the thing about temporary relaxation was that it was temporary. The jolt he felt in his head wasn’t enough to snap him out of this trance, but his heart raced at a million miles an hour.

The decapitated heads of Vulture Man, Pig Man, and G-Pac, with their spinal columns dripping with blood, floated into view with their eyes glowing neon purple. Every harsh stare was intended for their former comrade. Every word they spoke was in a unified, devilish tone. “Where were you, Dear Lord? Where were you when we needed you? You boasted the warrior spirit of the Demon God and then you ran like a coward!”

The Lord of the Pit’s dry mouth tried to form words, but he was too exhausted to lace together a coherent sentence. He had so much explaining to do, but the disembodied heads of his brethren shouted, “Silence! We don’t want your logic! We don’t want your apologies! We want you to suffer the way we suffered! It’s the only way we shall find justice in this netherworld!”

The floating heads glowed a brilliant orange aura as they withdrew from their superior positions. A hooded figure standing behind them waved his clawed fingers as if he was the one controlling these necrotized spirits. The figure jerked his hood back and revealed the pointy-eared, evilly grinning face of the concert slasher. The Lord of the Pit’s heart beat even faster than before while condensation moistened his flesh. He even felt a warm sensation across his groin, though the smell was anything but comforting.

The slasher said, “You heard them yourself. You’re a coward. You’re a thief. You stole their chances at freedom right from underneath. You took something from them that they’ll never get back. You took something that means more to them more than you ever will. What about their families? Their children? Their wives? What will you tell them once they demand answers? Who will come to your rescue when you have to answer for your cowardly sins?”

The Lord of the Pit tried to fire back, but his numb state wouldn’t allow such rapid-fire lip movement. All he felt was more condensation, this time in his eyeballs. The slasher frowned sadistically at his prey and said, “Pathetic. You can’t even string together a reasonable sentence when a simple apology would have worked nicely. But you heard your friends say they don’t want an apology. They want revenge. They want justice. So now, band mates, I ask you this question: what shall we do with this offensive scoundrel?”

The heads floated in front of the slasher and chanted like demonic monks, “Put him in a box! He’s a tard! Put him in a box! He’s a tard! Put him in a box! He’s a tard!” No matter how his already weak body resisted, the Lord of the Pit felt suffocated as he was forced into a wooden box and the lid closed over him with steel chains wrapping around the deathly container. With so little oxygen and not enough power to fight back, the Lord felt his heart beating faster and faster, possibly for the last time. He never had a chance to say goodbye to his friends and now he was going to be locked away for all eternity.

And then the man known as Daniel Mercer screamed his way out of his trance and sat up in bed. He was pouring with sweat, his sleeping shorts (which were thankfully dark) reeked of urine, his eyes were burning with salt, and his head felt like it was being crushed underneath a steamroller. The rock star rubbed his temples and moaned in a low voice, as if either of those things was capable of curing his hangover from last night.

Wearing nothing but a wife-beater tank top, his drenched sleeping shorts, and a pair of wool socks that were too big for him, Daniel slowly stood up from his bed and asked himself, “What the hell happened last night? What the fuck?”

The sound of a doorbell ringing send a lightning storm of pain throughout Daniel’s head as he clutched his hair and sat back down screaming and swearing in agony. He wondered who the hell would come to his house at this time of day. His neck creaked as he turned his head to see on his digital clock it was one o’clock in the afternoon. “Son of a bitch,” he said to himself as he gingerly got back up and staggered toward the front door of his house. The bell rang again and he screamed in agony before shouting audibly, “I’m coming, damn it! Jesus Christ!”

Slowly but surely, he trudged to the front door and opened it to see a balding, middle aged man in a black leather jacket and blue jeans. “Are you Daniel Mercer?” Upon getting an answer in the form of a slow nod, the man pulled out a police badge and said, “I’m Detective Shawn Henry with the Paulson City Police Department. I’m here to get a witness statement from you regarding what took place at the Demon Axe concert last night.”

Daniel squinted his eyes at the morning light and softly said, “Can’t you come back another time? As you can see, this isn’t really…you know…”

“I understand you’re not feeling well, Mr. Mercer,” said Detective Henry. “But the sooner we get a witness statement from you, the sooner we can find whoever did this.” The cop was met with a weirded-out stare, to which he responded, “Look, I don’t like being here any more than you do. But to tell you the truth, police work is a bureaucratic nightmare. There’s paperwork, there’s processing, the whole nine yards. I’m sorry you’re feeling bad today, but you’re going to feel even worse if we don’t catch the son of a bitch who did this.”

Daniel sighed and reluctantly said, “Come on in. Let’s get this shit over with.” The sickly rock star and the by-the-books detective made their way into the living room, which had little more than a flat screen TV, some heavy metal posters, and two leather loveseats. Daniel and Shawn sat oppositely of each other and allowed the conversation to begin once the cop pulled out a notepad and a pen.

“I’m going to be frank with you, Mr. Mercer,” said Shawn. “My department has already gathered witness statements from concertgoers and security enforcement and they all say that an elf, yes, an elf was responsible for all of the terrorism that took place last night. I know you’re all out of sorts today and I really caught you at a bad time, but please tell me that the terrorist was simply a guy with pointy ears.”

“And now I’m going to be frank with you, Detective Henry,” said Daniel as he leaned in closer. “I don’t give a shit what this slasher asshole was. All I know is that he took away three of the best band mates I’ve ever had. Demon Axe is no more because of this jerk-off with a machete. It wouldn’t be right to continue without them, especially since I basically ran away from the whole thing and left them to die. You want a witness statement from me? There it is, Columbo. A pointy-eared motherfucker slashed my audience to pieces, decapitated my best friends, and I’m the one who actually survived because I was cowardly enough to take off in the other direction.”

“Obviously, you’re suffering from Post-Traumatic Stress, Mr. Mercer.”

In a raised voice uncharacteristic of someone with a pounding headache, Daniel said, “You think? Is that what it really is, or did I just piss my shorts this morning because I’m forty years old and already need to be shoved in a nursing home?”

“There’s no need for hostility. I completely understand the pain you’re going through. I can set you up with a counselor and you can pour your heart out until you’re ready to move on,” said Shawn.

Daniel’s slightly raised voice evolved into a full scale scream. “There is no moving on! Didn’t you just hear me say that Demon Axe is over?! No more heavy metal! No more sex, drugs, and rock n’ roll! It’s over! Done! Finished! Adios! Sayonara! Unless your state-funded counselor is capable of reaching inside my aching-ass fucking head and pulling all of my bad memories out, then there’s not a whole lot he can do for me! I’ve taken every pill there is to take and my mind is still laughing at me and making me its bitch!”

After that oratory, Daniel clutched his head even harder and allowed tears to stream down his cheeks. Detective Henry continued to stare at him with a stoic attitude, though even he knew that his interviewee was beyond help. “You know what, Mr. Mercer?” said Shawn as he put away his pen and notepad. “I agree with you when you say this is a bad time to talk. I could sit here and tell you that the red tape nightmare will actually lead to something, but we don’t know for sure. This terrorist should be easy to find due to the pointy ears and green skin alone, but if that were true, he’d be in custody right now.”

“He must be a really good fucking fighter,” said Daniel with his head in his lap.

“That he is. We’d love to have him locked up for life, but there’s one last question I need to ask you before I go and…leave you to your devices. Can you think of any reason whatsoever why anybody would want to commit violence against a concert attendance of this size?” asked Shawn.

Daniel picked his head up and said through quivering lips, “Why does anybody do anything violent these days? Is it because one of the bands that played before us was all-Muslim? Is it because the curtain-jerker band had an openly gay guitarist? Was Demon Axe’s dark fantasy shit really that offensive? Take your pick, Detective Henry. It could be politically motivated. It could be just a bunch of nationalistic garbage. But if this pointy-eared motherfucker really is some Dungeons & Dragons freak, then we’ve got to seriously rethink the way we approach terrorism. I mean, where are you going to find an expert on this shit? Who actually knows anything about this asshole’s culture? Is he just a mental case with a blade? I don’t know. Nobody does.”

Shawn stood up and said, “That’s actually the most poignant statement I’ve received all day today and you’re not even in any condition to do a damn thing. I’ll tell you what, Daniel, let me and my department handle the media and news crews. You just focus on getting some sleep and wrestling with your…I don’t want to say demons for obvious reasons, but you get what I’m saying. I really do think you should see a counselor.”

“And I really do think that necromancy should be a real thing and that my band mates should rise from the dead. Until that day comes, there’s not a whole lot a counselor can do for me,” said Daniel.

“The offer is still on the table if you decide to change your mind. You can go back to bed now. I’m done for right now.”

“Okay, first you don’t want to use the word demon and then you tell a traumatized person to go back to sleep, probably hoping that he doesn’t have nightmares again. This politically correct garbage isn’t working out for you, Detective. If you want to give me some comfort, take away the voices in my fucking head. That’s all I’m asking anybody to do. I don’t need sympathy. I just want my voices to shut the fuck up and my band mates to come back from the fucking dead.”

Shawn nodded to Daniel and said, “Have a nice day, sir,” before showing himself out the front door.

“There’s no such thing as a nice day!” shouted Daniel as he stood up quickly. “It’s just like those assholes who say good morning! It’s an oxymoron invented by people who’ve never had their fucking friends ripped away from them! I can still see their spinal cords, for shit’s sake!”

The former Lord of the Pit could scream until his head exploded, but it wouldn’t have mattered since Detective Shawn Henry was long gone by then with the door shut behind him. Daniel slowly sat back down on the couch and sobbed softly into his calloused hands. “I just want my sanity back,” he said to himself. “Is that too much to ask? Everybody else has their sanity. Why can’t I have mine?”

Lionization

***LIONIZATION***

Usually when I’m writing short stories for the WSS, the plots are heavily centered around things in life I want to demonize. “Vex Ed” demonizes abstinence-based sex ed classes. “Zion Heart” demonizes the notion that people who are against the Israeli government are also against the Jewish people. But this is just short stories. What about novels? If my short stories aim to demonize the worst parts of human life, should my novels then lionize the best parts? Demons and lions: such magnificent creatures that represent opposite ends of the positive-negative spectrum.

I’ve decided that lionizing my favorite parts of life was something I definitely wanted to do with my novels. Well, most of them. That’s what I’m trying to go for when I write “Demon Axe” chapters. While it is true that it takes a shot at nationalism and obsolete traditions, it also highlights the awesomeness of heavy metal music. In fact, heavy metal music will be not only the theme of this story, but also the solution. I won’t tell you how, but it’s in there, trust me.

And that got me thinking: what other parts of my life can I lionize with my creative writing? Well, for starters…

***ANIMALS***

It’s the worst guarded secret I have: I love animals, especially furry ones with sweet dispositions. It’s the reason why I use the word “pie” quite liberally when I describe cute animals or sweet people. I have two novel ideas called Catfight and LuNacho that will lionize animals if they ever come to pass. Catfight is Tori-centric and LuNacho is of course Luna and Nacho-centric.

***BARBARIANS***

Here’s another badly-guarded secret: I love barbarians. I use them as main characters for any fantasy RPG I can get my hands on whether it’s Dungeons & Dragons or Diablo II: Lord of Destruction. They’re big, muscle-bound, intense, scary, and quicker than cats. Oh, and they also love to use battleaxes. Barbaric Justice and Backwoods Barbarian will be the novel ideas that lionize these badass warriors. Backwoods Barbarian will finally be the one where my friend TJ’s orc warrior Agrusk Xis makes his literary debut, since the rise and fall of Fireball Nightmare. My paladin Charles Goodhorn will make his debut in Barbaric Justice.

***PORNOGRAPHY***

As a single man who frightens easily around beautiful women, I’m constantly looking for things on the internet to masturbate to. Yeah, that’s right. I said it. I’ve been jerking off since the age of 12 and my first wank was to Peta Wilson from the 90’s detective show “La Femme Nikita”. So far, I only have one novel idea that will lionize pornography: it’s cleverly titled 69 Bullets. Get it? 69? Har-dee-har-har. I’m sure Marie would have a field day critiquing that title.

***AUTHORS***

I’m a semi-professional author and it’s the best (and only) job I’ve ever had. You’re damn right I’m going to lionize the hell out of this occupation. Authors love their privacy, because it allows them to get their work done in an efficient manner. The main villain of Tender Loving Intensive Care threatens the author’s privacy, so he and his fiancé beat the shit out of the villain. Seems reasonable to me when a simple police report would have worked. Or not. Actually, it doesn’t, which is where the author’s frustrations come to fruition.

***MENTALLY ILL PEOPLE***

I’ve been a schizophrenic since 2002, but I’ve struggled with suppressing traumatic memories and being depressed since my freshman year of high school. Naturally, I want one of my heroes to be just as fucked up as me. Thus we have Mario Bryan, the schizophrenic and socially awkward lead character of Watch You Burn, a novel I wrote back in 2015 and would love to edit the hell out of someday. Actually, it reads like an acid flashback, so editing might take longer than anticipated.

***DRAWING GROSS PICTURES***

When Susan was still living here at the Haines-Temons-Stevens-Wilson household, I would always draw pictures of cartoon characters doing violent things to each other and show them to her for a shocked reaction. She responded every time and I laughed my ass off. So I figured, why not lionize this special moment in time than with a novel called “Suck It, Double Dork”, where one of the drawings is of Eddy from “Ed, Edd, n’ Eddy” giving a blowjob to Kevin while the latter is standing on top of a coffin. That’ll make for some interesting literature.

***HEAVY METAL***

I’ve already mentioned Demon Axe’s impact on heavy metal, but did you know that I had a D&D-inspired novel idea called “Love, Lies, and Rock n’ Roll”? It’s about a homeless gay couple who play bard music on the streets for money, only to have a rightwing politician try to harass them with bullying tactics. Think of this story idea as being a cross between the movie “Any Day Now” and the memoir book “A Street Cat Named Bob” (with a little girl in place of the cat).

***INTROVERSION***

The silent warriors of our society don’t get enough credit for being themselves. Yes, Susan Cain has written a nonfiction book called “Quiet” to highlight the needs of introverts, but how many teachers out there still grade their students on participating in class conversations? Thus we have a novel idea called “Silent Warrior”, where high school senior Scott George lashes out at the unfair treatment he has received from his teachers and peers. Marie suggested that Scott not be so confrontational and I believe she makes a good point.

***LIBERALISM***

I don’t talk about politics that often, so when I write a novel about liberalism, I keep hoping that it’s special. I wrote “Filter Feeder” back in either 2013 or 2014 and it was a pro-environmental urban fantasy novel that was almost a knockoff of Final Fantasy VII’s Materia gimmick. Hopefully, I’ll do better with “It’s a Freak Country”, where a humanoid alligator is running for president and makes Donald Trump look like a Black Panther. This alligator candidate even has an orcish barbarian for a Vice President. Be afraid. Be very afraid!

***PRO-WRESTLING***

Occupy Wrestling is obviously my answer for lionizing this form of violent entertainment. But I also have a sequel to this story called “The Black Widow” planned out in minimal detail, where Debra Winter is the main hero and is still doing her ninja gimmick. I also have another wrestling story idea called “Monster’s Ball”, where a boring wrestler named George Kerry gets a werewolf curse put on him in order to make him more violent and exciting in the ring. Do I have to put dark fantasy elements in all of my wrestling stories? You’re damn right I do!

***CONCLUSION***

There are other aspects of my life I’d like to lionize such as Christmas celebrations and Halloween outings, but those don’t have novel ideas just yet. I’m working on it. Kind of. Maybe. I’d be nice if this cloudy weather didn’t sap every ounce of energy I have. Aw, who am I kidding? I love to nap during gray weather. Smokey loves it when I’m laying next to her, so it can’t be all that bad. We’ve got ears, say cheers!

***WEEKLY SHORT STORY CONTESTS AND COMPANY***

With real life taking over the admins’ lives, we all had to wait a week for a new contest. But by god, we finally have one. The theme is “dramatic entrance” and my story is called “The Audiomancer”. It goes like this:

CHARACTERS:

Edge Spider, Cyborg Gangster

Lisa Baker, Human Soldier

PROMPT CONFORMITY: Edge makes a dramatic entrance into Lisa’s apartment.

SYNOPSIS: In a cyberpunk society, soldiers will go to great lengths to cure themselves of PTSD, even if those methods are dangerous. Lisa has been a customer of Edge’s since she returned home from an overseas war. Edge’s main product is audio files that give the listener the same psychological effect as a traditional recreational drug. Lisa has been hooked on these audio files for a long time, but can’t come up with the adequate payments for these drugs. The story begins with Edge coming to her apartment to collect his debt, even if he has to use violence and intimidation to get it.

***DEMON AXE***

Daniel Mercer is in no condition to do an interview with the police. Even so, Detective Shawn Henry decides Chapter 2 is the perfect time to ask him stupid bureaucratic questions. During this conversation, it is revealed that Daniel is experiencing Post-Traumatic Stress and that he’s seriously considering giving up his music career. I guess having his audience and band mates slashed to pieces will do that sort of thing to him.

***DARK FANTASY WARRIORS***

With Monzo Bleeder up and running, it’s time for a new Dark Fantasy Warrior to take his place. Meet Vulture Man, Daniel’s guitarist from Chapter 1 of Demon Axe. He obviously doesn’t last long and he’s far from being a warrior, but Vulture Man is unique enough that he deserves his own drawing. Hey, if Drew Carey can be in the WWE Hall of Fame, Vulture Man can be a Dark Fantasy Warrior. Deal with it.

***MUSIC JOKE OF THE DAY***

If Phil Anselmo’s group Down collaborates with Aaron Nordstrom’s group Gemini Syndrome, will their new heavy metal band be called Down Syndrome?

Demon Axe, Chapter 1

Shrouded in darkness, the Lord of the Pit swirled his wooden ladle in the bubbling red concoction before him. The thickness of the liquid was like lava flowing in a volcano. The Lord, with his face painted as a skeleton and his long hair grayer than a cantankerous witch, looked down at his cauldron creation with a sadistic grin. His three cohorts, each of them donning black robes and vicious-looking masks, held out their steel bowls while the Lord of the Pit scooped and poured the demonic liquid into their dishes. “Drink it in, minions,” he said in a gravelly, haunting voice.

The first to consume his bowl of unholy soup was Pig Man, who as his name suggested wore the mask of a gray-skinned pig with tusks on either side and a brass nose ring through his snout. He also drank like a pig: quickly and sloppily, getting some of the brew on his robe. Pig Man let out an obnoxious burp to signify his satisfaction with his “meal”.

The second to feast upon the bubbling red muck was Vulture Man, whose mask bore a sinister scowl and a blade-like beak. Unlike his hoggish cohort, Vulture Man took small sips at first. Any trace of good dinner manners disappeared when he buried his face in his bowl and slobbered the liquid down. Instead of a burp, he let out a prolonged “Ah!” in a relaxed voice.

G-Pac, who wore the mask of a rotten-toothed, black painted, hollow-eyed clown, shook his head at his friends and chuckled with delight. “I’d say that hit the spot, wouldn’t you agree, Master?” The sinister clown drank his potion in one gulp and smashed the bowl over his head, shattering it into pieces. The mouth hole in his mask showed traces of an evil grin while a small trickle of blood ran down his forehead and into the cauldron.

“I truly am surrounded by pure gentlemen tonight,” said the Lord of the Pit, who took a swig from his own bowl and splashed it all over his gray trench coat and Demon Axe T-shirt. He threw his bowl off to the side and rubbed his hands together in gleeful anticipation. “And now my minions, join hands as I recite the Demon’s Prayer.”

With all four of these unholy clerics holding hands and bowing their heads with closed eyes, the Lord of the Pit spoke in his ominous voice. “Oh, Demon of Death, grant us your fire, your strength, and your passion. Let the masses join together in the circle pit and release their vicious energy. Don’t let our newest member, Pig Man, screw up tonight. And for god’s sake, Demon of Death, don’t let me be an asshole on stage. Don’t let any of my band mates say, ‘Too late!’”.

“Too late!” chimed in Vulture Man.

“And punish those who do!” said the Lord of the Pit, which earned a modicum of laughter from Pig Man, G-Pac, and even the smart-assed Vulture Man. The Lord pointed to the ceiling with his index finger and said, “That last one was for you, Master Carlin.” He ducked his head back down and said, “Alone, we are warriors of the music industry. Together, we are…”

“Demon Axe!” said the band mates in unison.

“Who are we?!” shouted the Lord.

“Demon Axe!”

“Amen, motherfuckers. Now let’s go out there and fuck shit up!”

The four members of the band released each other’s hands and marched their way beyond the stage curtain. With the stage lights dim and the audience chanting Demon Axe’s name, the band took their positions to the loudest of cheers. G-Pac sat at his drum kit, with his drum sticks resembling bloodied clubs. Vulture Man started strumming heavily on his electric guitar, the neck of which looked like the blade of a broad sword. Pig Man took his spot at the bass guitar, an instrument with strings that looked like pieces of ground up sausage.

The last band mate to take his position was The Lord of the Pit, who upon adjusting his battleaxe-shaped microphone received a thunderous ovation from the wild and crazy outdoor crowd. “What the fuck is going on, Paulson City?!” he shouted in his throaty voice, earning an even louder response from the audience. “You want to talk about some crazy shit?! We’re kicking this motherfucker off with Zombie-Ogre! Get that fucking circle pit going! One! Two! Three! Let’s go!”

The members of Demon Axe banged their heads and pumped out a heavy metal tune with a grinding guitar, a funky bass, and rapid-fire drums. The mosh pit in the audience intensified with every shove, resulting in bruises, bumps, and bloody gashes. With pyrotechnics bursting in the background, The Lord of the Pit began his lyrical assault on an already banged up audience.

“Eat, sleep, shatter, repeat! / Ultra-violence for human meat! / Winner, winner, chicken dinner! / The glutinous one is a true sinner! / Blood on his fangs, flesh on his tongue! / Poison in his gut, disease in his lungs! / Zombie-Ogre is coming to kill! / Cannibalism, a sadistic thrill!”

As Pig Man and Vulture Man screamed the chorus into their bone and skull microphones, The Lord of the Pit stopped head banging for a moment and had a faraway look in his eyes. He was probably accustomed to looking at ghosts all the time with his dark fantasy gimmick, but this time, he actually looked like he saw a ghost. His eyes were wide, his body was still despite the heavy metal thrashing going on, and he frowned his worst frown.

“Stop the music! Stop the goddamn music! Do it, now!” ordered the Lord of the Pit, to which the band mates reluctantly complied. The antsy audience cheered at their wildest level, clearly suffering from heavy metal withdrawal. The Lord pointed his finger out in the distance and said, “Stagehands, I want you to shine a big red light on that guy in the back. The one with the brown robe and the hood over his face. You’ll understand why in a minute. Just fucking do it!”

The red light was shining down upon the robed figure in the far back of the venue. Such an evil color seemed appropriate considering he was carrying a lengthy machete in his hands with blood dripping down from the blade. Audience members screamed and slowly backed away from him.

“Well, Mr. and Mrs. Security Detail! You guys are sure earning your money tonight!” said a sarcastic Lord of the Pit with his arms flailing about. “Seriously, where the fuck are you guys?! How is it that not one bouncer has tackled this guy yet?! I guess he’s just a really good fighter, right? A whole group of three hundred pound men and not one of them can take down a jackass with a machete! It’s a simple matter of physics, people! A guy with a blade cannot fight off that many fat-assed bouncers! I don’t care if he’s the love child of Bruce Lee and a Xiaolin fucking monk! It’s damned near impossible!”

The audience booed and flashed downwards thumbs and middle fingers at the machete-wielding warrior, who didn’t flinch one bit. He just stood there as still as a statue and as stoic as the heartless killer he was. The Lord of the Pit continued his rant with, “I’ll tell you guys what. Since security is too lazy to do their fucking jobs, I’ve got a better idea on how we can handle this. Normally, I don’t encourage this kind of thing at my shows, but this asshole is giving us no other choice. How about this: you, the audience, form a circle pit around that guy and see how tough he really is when he’s got a whole army going up against him!”

The crowd erupted into deafening cheers and leonine roars, raising their fists to the skies and letting their mostly pierced tongues hang down from their mouths. “Are you ready?!” shouted the Lord of the Pit, to which the crowd cheered even more aggressively. “One! Two! Three! Get him!” The rowdy and animalistic crowd descended upon the machete fighter ready to beat his ass into powder.

Nobody counted on the mysterious warrior removing his hood to reveal green flesh and elongated ears, to which the crowd backed off and the Lord of the Pit shouted, “Holy shit!” The machete fighter threw one slash and lopped off the heads of several audience members, their necks gushing like volcanoes of blood and their bodies dropping to the ground almost instantly.

Audience members wailed and ran with their arms flailing in the air while the elfish murderer stabbed them in the gut, hacked off their arms and legs, and slashed their throats. In such quick and unrivaled movements, the elf turned this outdoor concert venue into an ocean of thick blood, splattered organs, shredded skin, and shattered bones.

Among the frightened people desperately trying to escape were the members of Demon Axe themselves. They looked like anything but unholy knights as they ran like Olympians behind the curtain, past the backstage area, and through the cheaply-built door, which the Lord of the Pit battered down with one shoulder tackle. With his mind scrambling in different directions, his heart beating like G-Pac’s double bass drums, and sweat raining from his painted skin, the Lord of the Pit shed his gray trench coat and bolted toward the Demon Axe tour bus. He shot up the stairs and made a football tackle onto the soft plushy couch.

The Lord’s breathing was heavy and raspy as he closed his eyes and sprawled out on the couch. He heard the bus doors close and the driver attempting to start the engine, which snapped him out of his exhausted state and forced him to look around for his band mates, none of whom were on the bus.

“Hold on a second! Driver, where the hell is everyone?! We can’t just leave them out there with this psychopath! Open the goddamn doors and let them in!” demanded the Lord of the Pit. As he frantically looked around, he saw something out of the window that made his bloodshot eyes shoot up in horror and load up with tears. The elf warrior stood outside the tour bus with a frightening smile on his face, audience members screaming and running in the background, and the severed heads and spinal columns of Pig Man, Vulture Man, and G=Pac in his fists.

While the elf was laughing evilly to himself, the Lord of the Pit banged on the window and shouted “No!” repeatedly in prolonged cinematic fashion. The bus’s engine finally started and the vehicle drove away into the night, the elf never taking his burning orange eyes off of the screaming and traumatized singer.

With the arena far behind him, the Lord of the Pit continued to scream and cry in agony at the thought of his former band mates decapitated by this monster of a human being, if he could be called that. He scrambled toward his mini refrigerator and pulled out everything from its confines whether it was lunch meat, ice cream, or what he was truly looking for, a gigantic bottle of booze.

The Lord eyed the bottle with heavy tears and heavy breathing. “This is just what I fucking need.” He quickly unscrewed the top and chucked the entire bottle in only a matter of minimal gulps. Once the bottle was empty, he smashed it against his head several times. The bottle finally broke after the fifth strike. With a bloodied scalp and a drunken, traumatized mind, the once mighty Lord of the Pit dropped down to his knees and fell flat on his face. He intended to sleep that way for the rest of this god-forsaken night.

“I’d get that wound wrapped up if I were you, Daniel,” said the driver, which earned him a lazy middle finger from the Lord of the Pit. Lord of the Pit? Who was he kidding? His band mates were dead. Most of his fans were dead. The whole dark fantasy gimmick was just bullshit. And now the man legally known as Daniel P. Mercer was just a sad drunk with paint and blood all over his face.